


Got Into Me

by verushka70



Series: Another Life [6]
Category: due South
Genre: BDSM, Drama, M/M, Romance, Series: Another Life, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-19
Updated: 2000-01-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 09:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: Fraser and Ray talk recent "things" over... and find out how arousing talking can be.This story is a sequel toI'll Take It.





	Got Into Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). It has not been changed (nor will it be) on import to the AO3, except to more appropriately or descriptively tag, and to fix broken web links. Ever so grateful to [Open Doors](http://opendoors.transformativeworks.org/) and to [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza), for making the archive import to AO3 happen. TYK!

Got Into Me

 

Pairing/warning/rating: Fraser/Kowalski, some kinky (B&D)  
discussion/reflection, NC-17 for non-kinky slash sex

Disclaimer: Fraser and Ray are owned by Alliance... but they have a lot more fun when I play with them. 

Summary: This is a sequel to I'll Take It. Slight spoilers for Chicago Holiday. Fraser and Ray talk it out... and find out how arousing just talking can be. 

Many thanks to Erica for beta reading.  
  

####  Got Into Me

 

  

Since that night we've discussed nothing and we've done nothing much out of the ordinary. It would be amusing if it weren't somewhat disturbing. I come over to his house each evening, as I normally would. We order food, as we normally would. We sit on the couch, as we normally would. We put on the television, as we normally would. He lazily plays with my body, as he normally would. And, lately, in a departure from the previous norm, we sit on the couch and _I_ play with _his_ body -- and not lazily. 

If nothing else, I have been... unleashed in some small way. No longer do I watch him from across the room, thinking of the things I'd like to do, and don't do, waiting until my sweet Ray comes to me and caresses me and excites me. No. Now I look at him from across the room and think of the things I'd like to do, and beckon to him, and he comes. He comes slowly, walks to me on those long, lean legs, with a teasing slowness or meandering about the room first. As if he might not come at all. 

But, in the end, he always comes to me. And I do what I'd like to do -- at least some of what I'd like to do. Such as putting his hand on my erection. Or pushing his shirt up and opening his pants and putting my mouth on him. Or pulling him down to lie with me on the couch. And he smiles, and his long lashes barely screen his eyes. He doesn't speak until he can't help vocalizing, and then not always in words. 

And we finish or we get interrupted by the arrival of the food, and we eat, and perhaps we walk Dief or I walk Dief alone, before we turn in for the night. At which point we finish what we began earlier, or begin anew, as the case may be. 

But all we talk about is the usual innocuous, every-day topics like work, and cases, and current events, and what's on the television. 

I'm uneasy with not talking about all we said that night, the night he brought up tattoos and civil and church services. But I'm more uneasy with broaching the subject with Ray. And he, apparently, has no inclination to bring it up, either. 

But before I fall asleep, I imagine my name. Tattooed on him. There. Where none but a lover would see it. Where, if anyone else touched or kissed Ray there, they would _have_ to see that I had been there first, would have to see my mark on Ray, would know he was _mine_. It becomes part and parcel of a larger, more complex scenario wherein Ray is captive in some fashion... held or tied down, in some way such that the tattoo is clearly visible. Perhaps bent over the ottoman for his easy chair. And in this larger, more complex scenario, I not only have complete control, but he alternately begs me to stop and begs me to do more. I feel my cheeks getting hot just thinking about it, but I can not deny I have endless variations on this theme. Now that my body has had a taste of the possibilities, my mind has spun countless confections around that small taste. 

In a detached way, I am surprised I found such a thing so romantic and erotic. I am surprised at the weight it lifted. In that sense, it isn't even necessary that Ray actually _do_ it. I needed only to know that he was willing to have my name tattooed on such an intimate part of him, and much of my unfounded distress dissipated. 

I have since seen Ray with young Detective Patterson and he does not do anything to Patterson. Does not touch the young man. Verbally, he is as casual and friendly with the young man as he was before. But there is something special in the way he carries himself around Patterson when I am present. There is a special, surprising deference to me he had not shown in Patterson's presence before -- though outwardly, there would seem to be no difference. 

I'm not proud to admit that it pleases me greatly. I know that Patterson senses something -- he gives off the air of a hound scenting something unknown, a trail gone frustratingly cold. But he cannot figure out what it is, perhaps because the change in Ray's behaviour is so subtle. I try not to appear smug but I am sure some sense of my contained pleasure is communicated to Patterson. It seems to puzzle him, since our outward appearances have not changed. 

I now enjoy the simple pleasure of knowing, in Patterson's presence, that Ray is obeying my desire that he not provoke me further with Patterson. I enjoy knowing that Ray is willing -- even if he never does it -- to permanently mark his body with my name, a sign of my claim on him, almost a sign of my ...ownership. I enjoy knowing that Patterson has picked up on the change in Ray's behaviour, while being unaware what caused it or just what that change is. But the enjoyment is commingled with a sense of ...deflation, a perversely let-down feeling. 

Ray's platonic physical activities with Detective Patterson somehow engendered that powerful, heady desire to take Ray. And then I could make him mine repeatedly, roughly, and while he was restrained. A slap on the young man's back, or a hand on his shoulder, made it seem possible that there could be something going on between them. And, though it drove me temporarily mad, it apparently provoked the need to ...prove to Ray and to myself that Ray is _mine_. And that need was greater than my ability to control it. 

But, though I want to possess Ray -- and, indeed, do possess him, for he says he is mine, and let me take him those two times -- I somehow now lack the ...drive to do it. 

It is not for lack of arousal and excitement, no. Those are present in ever changing ways. But it is ...well, perhaps it is only logical. In the absence of a threat, I have no need to prove anything or stake my claim. I have the desire, but the undeniable need to temporarily own Ray is diluted by the knowledge that he _is_ mine. And that he is trying to prove it by obeying my wish that he not further engage or encourage Detective Patterson. (And, to be fair, obeying my caution that it was wrong to use Patterson as a catalyst. It wouldn't be only Ray's feelings or mine that might be affected, but also Patterson's, after all). 

So... desire without drive. That's what I have now. I think it is frustrating Ray, but he does nothing. And I know it is frustrating me, but I don't know what to do. And now that I have nothing in particular _driving_ me to possess him the way I have done only twice now, I am not sure what I should do, or how. I only know that I want to, but lack the... motivation that jealousy gave me before. 

Whether Ray is silent about all of it because he's changed his mind or not, I do not know. And I lack the nerve to bring it up. Perhaps a letter would be a better way to bring it up. Except a letter does not allow for discussion. Only declaration and exposition. What I would like to tell him is that it's all right if he has changed his mind. And that if he still wants to get the tattoo, that's all right, too -- as it is if he does _not_ want to get the tattoo. 

But mostly I would like to say that I want to ravish him again. And with accoutrements -- the handcuffs, perhaps. Or perhaps something else. What, I'm not sure. I have already wondered if the leg shackles they often use on prisoners from the Cook County Prison can be legally obtained by people other than law enforcement -- or by law enforcement not permitted to carry weapons in this jurisdiction. 

I think of beautiful, terrible scenarios that, before, worried me with their perversion. Now, all that worries me is that I don't know how to bring it up. Odd how perversion becomes permissible when the issue is no longer co-operation, but only communication. But I shouldn't call it perversion. The Oxford English dictionary says in definition 1b that perversion is a psychological term for "A disorder of sexual behaviour in which satisfaction is sought through channels other than those of normal heterosexual intercourse." 

So, presumably, any heterosexual couple who make use of marital aids are demonstrating perversion, because those are not necessary for "normal heterosexual intercourse". Or, according to that definition, my love for Ray was perverse before it ever became a possessive desire to control his pleasure and his body, for the simple fact that it was not "normal heterosexual intercourse". And what is "normal" supposed to mean? Is that not relative? Were we to suddenly make use of a time machine and travel back to eighteenth century French aristocracy, pre-revolution -- or, better yet, to Rome under Nero -- "normal" would be a great deal different from what is considered normal now. 

And however perverse it may appear at first glance, consensual activity seems like it ought to be perfectly legal, so long as it takes place between consenting adults. I realize there are a number of laws on the books in the United States that criminalize certain sexual acts... but at the same time I can not help realizing the absurdity of designating consensual, adult activity a "crime". Who is it hurting, so long as the involved parties are enjoying it, are adults, and aren't performing it on the street in full view of everyone? 

But then, I realize these are also defensive justifications and rationalizations \-- no matter how much I also believe them to be true. And the fact that I must make them only a symptom of my latent fear that it _is_ all perverse. 

This, perhaps more than any other reason, is why I must talk to Ray about it. Find the courage to address it. All of it -- or at least as much as we can stand. Because somehow I feel that just discussing it with Ray is likely to ease my conscience. Ray is uninhibited, unfettered. I suspect he has probably considered far more bizarre scenarios than I have. If I had the courage to tell him the things that go through my mind when I think of him restrained, he would probably tell me they are the sexually adventurous equivalent of macaroni and cheese, and that he has the caviar and quail. Well, of course he would not put it in exactly those words. But the gist of it would be the same, I think. 

I hope. 

If only I could just untie my tongue when these thoughts cross my mind, and express them. Bizarrely, it has occurred to me that possibly the easiest way to do it would be in a confessional, or some similar location. Where we wouldn't have to face one another but could still hear each other clearly. 

On the other hand, perhaps I am worrying needlessly, and this is merely a swing of the pendulum from adventurousness to safety, and it will swing back at some unknown point in the future. I do tend to worry needlessly about some things. 

I resolve to speak to him about it by the end of this week, though. That will make it exactly two weeks since we last discussed anything of this nature. And since I last restrained and _took_ him. 

* * * 

Okay, I waited long enough. If I don't say something, that damned Canadian's never gonna do it. I've given him almost two freakin' weeks \-- nothin'. Maybe he's just decided he's not into it anymore -- which is fine. Well, it's not fine, but, whatever. At least _tell_ me. I don't know if you don't tell me, fer crying out loud. 

Fraser. What a piece-a work. And so walled up. There's no telling what's going on behind his face when he's in Perfect Polite Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance Mountie Mode. Half the time, I figure he's thinking, "Ray, you're an idiot". But he's gotta be getting this stuff from somewhere... and he has been getting fresh with me a lot. Which is great. If nothing else ever happens, at least I got that. He reaches for me now! He starts things! He gets me going, instead of always vice versa. That makes it all worth it, even if he never takes me like that again, and so long as I never get him worked up that way again. 

I got a plan for how to do this. I was thinking about writing him a letter, but I type with the "hunt and peck" method, and my handwriting's no faster and a lot harder to read. 'Sides, it just feels like a chore \-- like paperwork at the precinct or homework. So I'm thinkin', phones. 'Course, can't do this while he's at the Consulate -- I'm sure Turnbull'd do something wrong and wind up putting the whole thing on speaker phone. The Ice Queen don't like me much as it is; I'm sure she'd like me even _less_ if she heard what we been doin'. 

* * * 

He's sitting' over there, in the passenger seat, bein' his usual perfect, gorgeous self. And babbling on about some documentary he saw. Oh-oh, now he's lookin' at me. 

"What?" 

"I said, did you know that the gibbon monkey--" 

"Frase -- No. I'm sorry. Wasn't paying attention." 

"Ray, I've been telling you about it for the last fifteen minutes." 

"Yeah, but, Frase, I just look at you and my mind wanders." 

He gets a little pink and looks away, but not before his eyes meet mine quick, secretly pleased. 

"Ray. You're incorrigible." 

"I know. I been told that enough in my life. What can I say." I smile and look at the road again. "But, uh, you're getting' kinda incorrigible yerself," I add. "It's _really_ cool. _Really_ butters my muffin, Frase." 

I glance over at him and I've got the full blown blush, now, and an embarrassed, "Ray...." 

God, I just love getting' him all flustered. I swear it gets him hot. Maybe it got him hot before, too; only he didn't show it. 

But, first things first. We -- uh-oh -- gotta talk. I hate to do it, cuz I know these kinds o' talks almost always wind up big and deep and horrible... but, but, we just gotta get some o' this out in the open. I got.... I got some stuff to say. I think maybe he does too. An' I just wanna know, whether or not I should start clearing' my mind of these nice, nasty fantasies I'm getting' about me and Fraser, or if I can just take off running' with 'em. 

Ten minutes later, we're in my apartment and I'm calling in a pizza on my cordless phone, leaning against the sink. 

His lips are moving on my neck and the hair on my body is standing up cuz I'm so freakin' turned on and tickled, literally. He's pressing' his hard cock against me through my clothes and his. Not real hard or forceful or nothin', just kinda gentle... but pressing, stopping, pressing, stopping... almost like a thrust but not quite. 

We'll never talk about this stuff at this rate! 

Finally off the phone with the pizza guys. I kiss Fraser back, cuz now I can. But at the same time, I'm moving him a little bit away with me, bit by bit. So I can get a grip on this and get this whole conversation started. Even if it _is_ like pulling teeth. 

"Frase." 

"Yes, Ray?" Man, the hotness of his breath on my neck is driving' me nuts! 

"Frase, hang on a sec...." I dig in the inner pocket of my coat and take out my cell phone. "Here, take this, okay?" 

He takes it. 

"What for?" 

"I'm expecting a call on that phone, but I gotta go to the john, Frase. If that phone rings, you answer it and tell 'em I'll be right there. I'll be outta the bathroom as soon as I can." 

"Oh," he says, puzzled, seeing my cordless phone in my one hand, and the cell phone in his. 

"Hang out on the couch, why don'tcha?" I suggest, taking my coat off and throwing it over a chair. Then I head for the bathroom without lookin' back at him. 

Okay, I put the toilet seat and cover down and sit down on top of the closed toilet seat, cuz it's the only place to sit in here. 

Take a deep freakin' breath. And one more for good luck. 

I dial my own cell phone number. 

It rings twice. Then he answers it. 

"Detective Raymond Vecchio's, of the twenty-seventh precinct, cell phone, Constable Benton Fraser speaking," he says. 

"Hi, Frase," I say quietly. 

"Ray! I-- but you--" 

"Just hang on, Frase. Okay? I'm doin' this for a reason." 

"All right..." 

"I think we need, to, uh..." I cough. "Need ta talk about some... stuff." 

"Some stuff," he says back, just an echo. 

"Yeah, some stuff. You know. Stuff we been doin'. Or, I mean, that we ain't been doin'. If ya get my drift." 

"Yes, I do," he says. Sharp as a tack, as usual. 

"Frase, I... I... I dunno where ta start so I'm just gonna start. I love how... affectionate you are. And you're more affectionate than ever before and I love that and if that's all that ever changes that's enough for me." 

I can hear him swallow. "Thank you, Ray," he finally says after a fairly long pause. Looks like I'm gonna be doin' a lot of the talking. Hm, that's a surprise. 

"Okay, so, I just' wanted you ta know that. 'Kay?" 

"Yes, all right," he says. 

"Frase, I'm not real sure... real sure how I feel about ...everything we've done. I know it's been... freakin' mind-blowing for me both times. An' I ...really loved it. It was fantastic. An' I get the feeling you... you're backing off, somehow. I guess cuz of the Patterson thing, which was my stupid fault." I sigh. 

"But, ya know, if it makes you feel freaky and weird, and you don't like that, we don't have ta do it. I just... well, just wanted to tell ya that. But, but if you do like it... we haven't done it in, uh, like two weeks. An' I... I wish we had." But before I can say anything else, he jumps in. 

"Ray, I... I have enjoyed the... the... more unusual things we've done." That's my Frase. Always kinda addressing' the subject but not actually saying' what it _is_. 

"Good, good. I'm glad it's... it's mutual," I say. The word feels funny. I've thought the word 'mutual' lotsa times before, I just don't think I've said it much. 

"And?" he prompts me. 

"Whaddaya mean, 'and'? I'm getting' there... don't rush me." 

"Oh, terribly sorry, Ray." 

"Never mind. Okay, where was I... Oh, yeah. I like the stuff we've done when you, the two times you... got jealous of Patterson. But I was my classic bonehead self; I just wasn't thinking what else it would do, besides get ya all riled up and ready to take me." I sigh. "I sure never meant to hurt you. An' I don't want you having' ta do that to get... to get..." 

"Motivated?" he jumps in. 

"Yeah, motivated. So, anyways, I really kind of... kind of miss that, the way you ...got wild. An' I just ...just want you to know it's okay if you want to get wild like that again. But I also wanna tell you it's okay if you, uh, if you never wanna do that again." Not really, but I'll live. Fraser, not wild, is better than no Fraser at all. And he _is_ a lot more frisky than before. 

"It's... it's all right, Ray. You didn't make me do that. It was my choice, even if it was somewhat... inappropriate. I know my doubts are unfounded, since you've been so kind as to inform me of the depth of your feelings for me and commitment to our relationship. And, and, I've, uh, wanted to do it again myself, though I didn't want to do it for the same reasons. Except I haven't been able to make myself. It seems I might have needed that... motivation. Of jealousy. To spur me on to... to..." 

"To take me." 

"Yes." 

"Okay. Hm. So yer saying you wanna do that again, but you can't?" 

"Well... nothing pushes me to do that, as your behavior with Patterson did. But, well, I do prefer we not make use of a third person as a motivational factor..." 

"Yeah. I'm sorry." 

"It's all right now, Ray." 

"So, so... lemme get this straight. You, uh, you'd like ta 'get wild' on me that way again, you just don't know how." 

"It isn't so much that I don't know how... as that I am not, er, possessively motivated to." 

"Oh." I think a minute, but nothing comes to mind. "So what do we do?" 

I hear him sigh. "I'm not sure, Ray." 

"Oh." Well, we'll leave that for later. I just gotta spill all the beans, now. "Well, Frase, I dunno what to do about that. But we can come back to that. I, uh, there's somethin' else I wanna tell you," I say. I take a deep breath. And another one. 

"What's that?" he asks me cautiously. 

It is so freakin' weird to talk to him on my cordless home phone and my cell phone, when both of us are in my apartment, just in different rooms. I can hear his voice comin' through the phone, but also through the shut bathroom door, like he's in stereo or somethin'. 

One more deep breath. 

"Ray?" 

"Yeah, Frase. I'm here. I'm, uh, uh, I just wanted to tell ya... I think I been, uh, interested in this stuff for a while. Or curious, anyway. Maybe a pretty ...long while." 

"How do you ...mean?" 

"Well, I never did it with anyone 'cept you. It's just been, I been thinkin' about it a lot... since we, uh, since the last time with the handcuffs--" my voice croaks on that word "--an' anyway, I realized there was somethin' else to it, somethin' that has nothin' ta do with you." 

"And that would be?" He sounds real quiet now. 

"Well, like I said. I think I always kinda been into it -- in my head, anyway... that stuff seemed like... like it would be hot. An' when I was thinkin' it over the other day, I realized that it's kinda always been there, I think, like this little fruit fly buzzing' around my brain. Not a mosquito, cuz it didn't bite or nothin'... but you, you kinda unleashed it or somethin'." 

I hope I'm making' sense to him. Cuz to me, I sound like an idiot. 

"Go on," he says. And maybe it's just me, but maybe he really is sounding a little more hopeful. 

"Like I can remember thinking certain things like when I was in high school. I remember this one dude I went ta school with had all these hard rock an' glam rock records and we'd go over to his house and listen to 'em. And he had this one record -- I thought it was from around then, but it turns out it was from a lot earlier, like '69, which kinda surprised me... " I'm getting' side-tracked here. 

"Anyways. This one record he had, it had this song on it. An' it just... the song stuck in my brain. It was called 'I Wanna Be Your Dog'. An' the singer, the singer of the band, he wore a dog collar. On the record cover and the liner notes. I know this doesn't seem real weird for now... but back then, no one dressed like that. It was... pretty shocking." 

I gotta breathe now, cuz I'm starting' to get dry from talking'. 

Fraser doesn't say anythin'. 

"You still there?" 

"Yes, Ray, I'm listening." 

"Oh." Relief! "Okay. Let me get some water." I put the cordless phone down for a few, get up and splash cold water on my face. Then I dry my hands and sit down and get the phone again. 

"Okay, so, anyways, that was... that was high school. That song kinda stuck with me. I don't sing too good, Frase, so don't laugh, but it went somethin' like--" I kind of talk-sing it cuz I can't carry a tune in a bucket. "-- _now we're gonna be face to face, an' I lay right down in my favorite place, an' now I'm ready to close my eyes, and now I'm ready to close my mind, now I'm ready to feel your hand, and lose myself on the burning sand, and now I wanna be your dog, now I wanna be your dog._ " 

I practically choke trying' to get the words out, but nothing's stopping' this train now, so I keep going'. 

"An' then, when I was at college -- all two whole semesters before I dropped out -- there was this other guy in the dorms, and he had all this new wave music and stuff. He was into it before anyone, before it was cool. An' some of it was ...shocking then, although' it wouldn't be a real big deal now, I think." 

"Yes," Frase says. "Go on." He sounds a little weird, but under control. Which is good, cuz now I can't stop babbling. But he's not freakin' out. He's not. Thank God. 

"So, anyways, he had this great collection of new wave music. It was always on in his dorm room. And it was, well, they just didn't play anything like that on the radio, then. There was this one song, I remember it was popular then -- not on the radio, but it sure seemed to get played at a lotta parties and stuff. I never heard it on the radio, though." 

"Yes," he says again when I pause. 

"Anyways, it was called 'Master & Servant'. An' I remember thinkin', at the time, _whoa, this is one perverted song._ " I swallow. "But... but... well, it just got my mind going'... an' I couldn't stop it. I can't remember all the words, but it was somethin' like: _it's a lot like life playing between the sheets, with you on top and me underneath, forget all about equality, let's play master and servant, let's play master and servant_..." Talk-singing it again, cuz I can't really sing. 

I stop. I don't hear anything, not even breathing. 

"You there?" 

"Y-yes, Ray," he says, sounding far away. 

"I'm freakin' you out, huh? Crap. I knew it. I'm sorry, Frase." 

"No, no, Ray," comes his voice, only he sounds more normal. "It's all right. It's just... rather a lot to take in at once. But I am not, not 'freaking out', I don't think." 

"Ya sure?" I ask slowly. "I can see how it's a lot to hear all of a sudden..." 

"It's all right, Ray. You were saying..." Fraser says. An' I'm getting' the feline'... he really wants me to keep talking to him about this stuff. Like he's finally getting it or somethin'. Or maybe... it's getting' him hot, like it's getting' me kinda hot... 

"Yeah. Anyways. I was saying... I remember that song really stuck with me. I kept thinking of... thinking of all these... different kinds of things, ideas, I'd get pictures in my head whenever I heard it when we were hanging out with Jerry and drinking' in his room. An' I was seeing' Stella then, still, as usual, but... but... there was this one chick, this goth chick--" 

" 'Got' chick?" 

"Goth. As in gothic." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah. Anyways, she was a friend of Jerry's. Ya looked at her, she was like this mistress of the night, like that Elvira chick. But she used to wear these studded armband things, an' I would imagine her... imagine her... doin' things ta me. Things that, that, I knew Stella never would. But I woulda never asked Stella. I woulda never got the nerve up. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have gone for it, anyway..." 

"I see." Something in his voice is kinda cool and far away again. 

"Frase, look. All I'm trying' ta say is, I, I had these thoughts then \-- I didn't know what they were. I mean, I knew, but, just plain ol' sex was a pretty new thing for me, Stella and me didn't go all the way until after we both graduated high school, so it was all still really new to me... I didn't know... know people got off... doin' stuff like that. It was... so, like, mysterious. And kinky. And shocking. And forbidden." 

"Ray, I think I understand," he says slowly. 

I sure as hell hope so. Cuz for the first time -- probably cuz we're on the phone and we're not face to face -- I feel like I'm telling' him so much it's like I'm naked on the inside of my head, in my heart, instead of naked with my body. Please, please, Frase, don't freak. Please. And all the time I'm thinking _please don't freak, Frase_ , my cock is doing its own thing, stiffening up. I stretch my legs out straight, so I have more room in my jeans. 

"Do ya, Frase? Do you really understand?" I have to ask. 

"I... have come to realize that... certain things I had not been exposed to, prior to my transfer to Chicago, certain things... I've encountered, have... piqued my curiosity, as well." 

"So... what was it for you?" 

"Oh, I don't know," he says, an' I can tell he's getting' that embarrassed tone of voice, from the phone and from what I hear comin' faintly through the bathroom door from the living room. "The way certain people... dressed. It seemed threatening but at the same time, vaguely exciting. And ...and dangerous." 

"Oh, wow." I can't help saying' it out loud. 

"Yes. Wow," he says back. He sounds a little breathless but I can't tell if it's nervousness or excitement. 

"So..." I prompt. "Like, what were they wearing?" 

"Well, uh, um, leather. Black leather. Leather... pants. Leather shirts or vests. Leather... chaps. One man had boots with chains and spurs on them. At the time I thought the spurs odd, wondering what kind of horse he had..." he trails off. "I was quite naive." 

"They were from a ...leather bar?" 

"I think so, yes. They must have been. One... one also had a collar. A black, leather, studded collar. And black leather studded bands on his upper arms... they were quite tight..." He trails off, then I hear him inhale a breath. "This was some time before I encountered a man who, in retrospect, I realized was a sexual masochist. I was to escort a Canadian diplomat's daughter. She had just turned sixteen and wanted a wild night on the town in Chicago. She... well, long story short, I accompanied her to a very ...interesting bar." He clears his throat. 

"A young man came up to me in the bar, and told me he'd been bad, very bad, and he, uh, he asked me, 'Please punish me'. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. I told him he couldn't have done anything so bad it couldn't be forgiven. Much later -- months -- I realized he had wanted... probably wanted... well, you know," he says, sounding embarrassed. 

"So, so... so what did you think about all that, Frase?" I ask him, when he doesn't say anything for a while. I'm dying to know. And, at this point, I'm so fuckin' hard, I can't help it -- I gotta put my hand on my cock. I think about opening my pants cuz they're so tight. 

"Oh, oh, Ray," he says, a nervous chuckle in his voice. "I'd rather... rather not go into it just now," he says, trailing off. 

"Okay, okay... you can tell me another time," I reply. I wish he'd open up more -- feel like I'm the only one getting totally naked, but, but, I guess that's okay. He hasn't freaked out yet. 

"Thank you," he says, sounding relieved. "Suffice to say, when I did realize what he'd meant -- what the men dressed all in black leather had been, had been participants in... I didn't want to think about it, but I... I couldn't help it. For a while. Do you... know what I mean?" 

Do I? Christ, yeah. "Yeah, Frase, I know exactly what you mean. Do you remember, a few years ago, when Madonna got into that whole scene?" 

"I'm afraid I'm not entirely up on popular culture, Ray." 

"Well, well, she had this one song... All about some guy giving up control to her, how pain could lead to pleasure and... letting yourself go wild... I just remember the chorus... _give it up, do as I say, give it up and let me have my way, I'll give you love, I'll hit you like a truck, I'll give you love, I'll teach you how to_..." 

I don't finish, because she didn't finish, and I ain't groaning' no sexy moans over the phone to Fraser. If I do, I might as well be jerkin' off. Though I probably could groan at this point, since my cock is ready to bust out. I have to stand. 

"Teach you how to...?" he asks softly. 

"Whaddaya think, Frase?" I have to chuckle again. "It's a sexual act, and it rhymes with _truck_." 

"Oh. _Oh_." From his voice I can practically see his blush. 

"But she never says it. She just... moans." 

"Oh." His voice is very small now. 

"Frase?" 

"Yes?" he says, a bit louder. 

"So, so... so whaddaya think? You think we can... we can kinda ...go with this? And I don't have to... provoke you?" 

"I... I would very much like to try," he says slowly, seriously. Like he means it.... 

_Major_ wood. Like it wasn't hard enough already! I can't help it. I have to rub it through my jeans. Maybe I should unzip... 

"I ...I gotta tell ya, Frase, I don't know anything about it, really. I never... never did nothin' but _think_ about it, before. The first time we, you and me -- when you, you held me down -- that was the first time I ever did anything like that." And I'm thinkin' _real_ hard now, about all these things, about that night, and the night with the handcuffs... thinkin' and rubbing'.... 

"Then we're both starting at the same point," Fraser says. 

Maybe he _has_ thought about it before. I swear. There really is no guessing what's going on behind that Perfect Mountie expression. 

"We'll... we'll go slow, Frase. We don't have to do nothin' the two of us don't like." 

"Right. Ray?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Would you... would you sing that, that song again?" 

"Oh..." Now I'm the one who's a little embarrassed. "Which one?" 

"The one with the words, _give it up, do as I say_..." he whispers the words to the song, like he's afraid to sing 'em. 

"Listen to you, Frase. You can sing, an' yer whispering the words. Me, I can't carry a tune in a bucket. How do ya expect me to sing?" 

"Nonsense, you sounded... very good. Besides, this sounds like more of a talk-sing than a singing song." 

"I... I guesso." 

He waits. Then, "Well?" 

"Well... right now?" I ask him, stalling. 

"Yes, now... would be nice, Ray," he says, in that sweet voice, an' I can't really stay no to _that_ voice. 

"Okay... uh, uh... I'll give it a shot," I say. Just for you, cuz you're my sweet, crazy Mountie man. I take a breath and start: 

_"Give it up, do as I say, give it up and let me have my way, I'll give you love, I'll hit you like a truck, I'll give you love, I'll teach you how to_..." And then I do a couple moans, since I am _so_ fucking hard, and I'm rubbing' it through my jeans, so the moaning doesn't seem unnatural, it seems totally normal now-- 

Suddenly the bathroom door opens, and there's Fraser, my cell phone to his ear, blush almost as red as his Serge ('cept he ain't wearing' the Serge right now) -- and the biggest fucking hard-on trying to bust outta his riding pants. They rise up like a tent around it. An' he looks at me standing there, with my hand on the bulge in my jeans, and the other on the phone by my ear. 

"Fraser--" God, I wanna suck him, right now. 

"Ray--" He looks so freakin' handsome and beautiful and innocent and wild. 

"Frase--" Ah, fuck it. 

I drop the phone on the bathroom counter and practically dive to his feet. This cock is _mine_ , I'm thinking, as I unzip him, and my hands are shaking' pulling his pants and then his boxers down, and it's hard and dark and sticky and oh-so-good when I get it in my mouth, salty and musky and smells like him. 

"Ray, Ray," he murmurs, stroking my hair while I suck him off. 

He comes real fast but it's okay. I love it. Want every drop. He's leaning' against the door frame by the time I'm done and I have ta give his balls a little lick and press my lips on 'em. 

"Ray, my Ray," Frase says again, petting my head. He leans over a bit, to kiss me, and when I look up at him, he looks down, those Lake-Michigan-dark blue eyes -- 

\-- an' next thing I know, I'm crushed in his arms and he's down here on his knees with me and he's captured my mouth and -- 

\-- and this talking thing was really a freakin' unbelievably good idea on my part. Wow. Maybe we should do this more often.  
   
   
   
   
   
  

end  
   
   
   
   
   
  

 Notes: 

1\. The definition of perversion that Fraser has is actually from the Online Oxford English Dictionary, and really is definition 1b. 

2\. The song "I Wanna Be Your Dog" is by Iggy Pop and the Stooges, and is on their first record, The Stooges, from 1969. Ray is paraphrasing the words. They are mostly right, but combine two separate verses into one verse prior to the chorus. 

3\. Iggy is actually not featured in a dog collar on the cover of the first Stooges record from 1969, the first recording of "I Wanna Be Your Dog". He is in a dog collar in the "Riot in the Motor City!" liner notes to the record Metallic KO. 

4\. The song "Master & Servant" is by Depeche Mode and was originally on their Some Great Reward album. Ray sings a paraphrased version of the lyrics, which really are "it's a lot like life, this play between the sheets" rather than "playing between the sheets". 

5\. The Madonna song is "Erotica" and was on her Erotica CD. 

Verushka wouldn't mind knowing what you thought of this story. 


End file.
